


In the Absence of Speech

by ladyshadowdrake



Series: Scarecrow [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint on a farm, Crows for the love of all, Fluff, M/M, Winter soldier compliant, rarepair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyshadowdrake/pseuds/ladyshadowdrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Bucky recover from the world away from the world. Clint doesn't mind having Bucky at the farm so much, except that he has an annoying habit of befriending crows. </p><p>Worst. Scarecrow. Ever. </p><p>Sequel to "Scarecrow"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence of Speech

**Author's Note:**

> So this was almost named "Bucky the (Anti)Scarecrow" 
> 
> Almost.

Clint didn’t mind having Bucky around the farm as much as he would have thought. All he wanted was an escape after the invasion… After Phil. Having someone else in his space should have made him feel trapped, but having Bucky around the farm was almost like having no one around the farm anyway. Clint peered around the corner before stepping out of his room into the hallway. He couldn’t decide if Bucky intentionally lurked in dark shadows just to scare the ever loving shit out of him, or if he really was as far into the clouds as he looked. Several times a day Clint found him just standing, still as a statue (or a scarecrow), staring off into nothing.

The first time had startled Clint so badly that he'd made a noise that definitely wasn’t squeak and pulled out his Berretta. Bucky had responded by snatching the gun away from him and getting his metal hand around Clint’s throat in one lightning fast movement. He'd come to his senses a second later, blinked at Clint in baffled confusion, looked at his hand around Clint’s throat, and then at the gun. He'd released Clint, checked over the weapon in a fluid motion, and then handed it back without a word.

Since then, Clint did his best not to startle Bucky. He thought Bucky also did his best not to lurk in places that would startle Clint, but the man didn’t seem to be all there in the upstairs department. He’d yet to say a single word despite haunting the farm for over six weeks, but he was useful, hardworking, and took orders like a champ.

Clint found Bucky sitting at the rough plank table in the dining room. He gave the man a sideways look as he passed the table to the kitchen. Bucky sat in font of a plate piled high with golden scrambled eggs mixed with an assortment of other things – what looked like sausage, various colorful vegetables, and possibly goat’s cheese. He hunched over it with his metal arm in his lap and his hair pulled back behind his ears while he shoveled the food in with mechanical efficiency. Clint admired how many calories Bucky took in per day, but it was another thing to keep him in those calories. He made a mental note to plan a shopping trip soon.

“Looks good,” Clint commented. He paused in prepping the French press and glanced over his shoulder. Bucky looked at him with his head tipped curiously, eyes locked onto Clint but not showing any understanding. Talking to Bucky wasn’t unlike talking a cat. His eyes held a certain opaqueness that made it difficult tell whether or not he understood half of what Clint said. If Clint asked him to do something though, he did it without protest. It was only the personal questions, comments meant to draw him into conversation that brought out the doll impression.

Clint loaded another tablespoon of fresh grounds into the press and turned to fill the kettle. He felt Bucky’s eyes on him as he stared out the kitchen window while he waited for the kettle to boil. The scrape of a chair on the wooden floor drew his attention. Bucky moved into the kitchen, picking up a pan from the drying rack, and rustling in the fridge. Clint tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t that big of a kitchen. The kettle shrieked and Clint finished preparing his coffee. He set the plunger back on the press to wait for it to steep.

By the time Clint had two mugs poured, Bucky had a plateful of fluffy eggs on the table for him. Clint blinked at it. “You better be careful of about feeding me,” Clint warned, snagging a fork out of the drying rack, “You’ll never get rid of me.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but Clint hadn't expected him to. He cleaned up the kitchen and then sat down across from Clint to finish his eggs. Bucky didn’t show any enjoyment in his food, so Clint happily did it for both of them. He moaned appreciatively through the first bite, sucking in air around the mouthful to cool it. The sour tang of the goat's cheese contrasted to the bite of the peppers and the warmth of the cheddar. “Food is so much better when someone else makes it.” He took several more bites and another swallow of coffee before he looked up. Bucky watched him with that same opaque feline gaze. Clint was probably projecting, but he thought Bucky looked pleased by the praise.

“Thanks, man, it’s great. I’ll cook tonight.” He cooked every night, so that wasn’t new, but he liked cooking and it seemed like the thing to say. Bucky shifted on his chair, pushed his hair back behind his ears once more, and continued eating.

“I’m going to clear the back barn out today,” Clint announced as they cleaned their plates, comfortably side-by-side at the sink. The back barn was one of those myriad tasks that sat on the wish list, always getting pushed down the list in favor of the million more pressing tasks on a farm. With Bucky taking on a huge chunk of his workload, he was finally getting to the abandoned building. Bucky twitched his head to show he’d heard Clint, but gave no indication on his own to do list for the day. Clint didn’t press him. Bucky had followed him around like a ghost for the first week, and then had taken it on himself to start taking over chores once he understood how it was done. Clint never had to show him something more than once, and Bucky seemed happy doing the work.

He handed the last cup to Bucky, and then dried his hands and headed out to work. Bucky trouped out the door shortly after and headed for the chicken coop, his ever faithful crows appearing out of the blue to follow him. Clint’s fingers twitched for his bow as a fat one landed on Bucky’s casually raised forearm. The bird turned and cawed at Clint with what was, without a doubt, the smuggest bird-look he’d ever seen. Clint mimed pulling an arrow, and the damn bird just hopped up to Bucky’s shoulder and turn its tail feathers to Clint.

“No respect,” Clint muttered, shaking his head.

~*~

Clint worked through the morning and into the afternoon with only the thunder of the radio to keep him company. He used to prefer silence when he worked, but not anymore, not after spending three days locked in his own head, screaming against Loki’s icy prison. He stopped that train of thought right there, and turned the radio up until he couldn’t hear himself think. The barn was a mess of discarded farm equipment, rotten timbers, and the occasional gem of a find in the form of antiques and items that could be repurposed. In what little spare time he had, he liked to build things. The items sold well and would help fund Bucky’s calorie requirement.

He had several piles sorted out – burn, trash, keep, and what the holy fuck is that?- when he realized that he had company. Bucky was perched on a fallen beam, his metal hand holding him steady, one leg swinging idly while he watched Clint work. When he saw that he had Clint’s attention, he jumped down and held out a grocery bag. Clint looked inside to find a stack of sandwiches wrapped in paper towels, and a glass mason jar of lemonade. He looked up at Bucky in askance, but the man had already lost interest. Bucky poked through the piles, picking up items and examining them with a distinct lack of reaction.

Not one to look a gift horse bearing food in his potentially very scary mouth, Clint took his gloves off and flipped a wooden crate over to take a seat. He watched Bucky sort through the piles while he dug into the first sandwich. It was nothing special, just bologna and slices of American cheese on soft white bread, but Clint enjoyed it with a sort of vindictive pleasure – Phil had hated processed American cheese, and processed sandwich meats, and processed white bread (he'd called it puffed sugar). All of that meant that Clint had made a study of bologna sandwiches, and had tried to sneak Velveeta into Phil’s food. He’d never managed to trick Phil into eating more than a bite of it, but that didn’t mean he’d ever given up.

Clint cleared his throat and shook his head to banish the memories. “See anything you like?” he asked when Bucky picked up an old window and held it up to the light. The ancient glass was a milky white and one panel had a crack in the corner. Bucky looked over at him. “I make picture frames, coffee tables, that kind of thing out of those. They sell well at the farmers markets - city girls, mostly.”

Bucky quirked a dubious eyebrow at Clint, and then looked back at the window. He set it down slowly and carefully, and then picked up a thick tire hub.

“Planter,” Clint offered.

Bucky put it down with the same care, and the same confused look. He abandoned the pile and sat down next to Clint. Clint offered him a sandwich, but he declined with a short shake of his head. While they sat, a crow flew in through the open hayloft. It landed on the remains of the ladder and cawed at them both. It fluffed up, and Clint swore it was glaring at him. Bucky stood and took a few steps toward the bird. Once the crow deemed he was far enough away from Clint, it flew down on perched on Bucky’s left shoulder, talons clattering on the prosthesis before finding purchase on the jean vest Clint had dug out of the closet for him. Bucky lifted his right hand absently to pet the bird’s breast.

Clint shook his head. “Only I would end up with a scarecrow that attracts the damn crows.”

Bucky looked back at him with something perilously close to a smile. The bird scolded Clint from its perch, preened Bucky’s hair, and then flew off.

Clint flipped it the middle finger. Crows were the bane of every farmer’s existence, and he had managed to get a farmhand who actually collected the pests like pets. Maybe he needed a dog and a barnful of cats… Yet, as he watched Bucky staring after his avian friend, Clint couldn’t find it in himself to be genuinely angry. Bucky struck him as someone in need of friends, and heaven knew Clint found himself friends in weird places. Maybe a murder of crows wasn’t so weird.

~*~

It took three days for Clint to realize that Bucky was trying to express friendship and gratitude through food, and another ten days for him to suspect that Bucky might also be coming on to him. He woke up every morning to increasingly lavish breakfasts, though Bucky let him make the coffee. Since Clint was rarely civil before his coffee (unless he’d gotten laid the night before), it was a smart move on Bucky's part to leave him that ritual. They moved around each other with domestic ease, and if Bucky still didn’t speak, he didn’t seem to mind it when Clint did. They went their separate ways after breakfast, and Bucky tracked him down in the afternoons with lunch. Clint even made the horrifying mistake of feeding Bucky’s crow a crust, and the bird was insufferably pleased about it.

“I don’t know why those damn things like you so much,” Clint groused, glaring at the bird where it was gleefully picking apart the bread crust, perched just out of reach, but where Clint would easily be able to watch it with its prize.

Bucky didn’t respond except to lift one eyebrow and quirk a shoulder. He might not ever speak, but he conveyed his meaning perfectly well – they liked him because he, for whatever godforsaken reason, liked them. He stood still for them, petted them, and didn’t mind them preening his hair. It also probably didn’t hurt that he didn’t shoot at them.

“They’re dirty, you know – probably infested with… lice, and… whatever other bugs birds carry around.” Clint made a production of shuddering and leaning away from Bucky.

Giving this thought due consideration, Bucky reached up and fingered a strand of dark hair. He craned to look at it, and then finally slid off the porch swing where they’d stopped for lunch. He folded down to the porch and shifted over until he was between Clint’s feet. When Clint didn’t immediately get the hint, he tipped his head back to look up at him.

“If you actually have lice,” Clint warned through the last bite of his sandwich, “I’m going to shave your head.”

Apparently unconcerned, Bucky just brought his chin down and waited for Clint to get on with his assigned task. Clint sighed, but he pushed Bucky’s head forward so the sun fell on his dark hair, and started carding through it. He had surprisingly soft hair that smelled of Nat’s shampoo and conditioner (boy, wasn’t she going to love that when she found her secret stash of Herbal Essences raided?). Clint spent several minutes obediently looking for lice or other creepy-crawlies, but when none appeared, found himself instead simply running his fingers through the strands. Bucky leaned subtly into his hands, relaxed. Clint stopped when he realized what he was doing, suddenly very aware of the warmth of Bucky’s body against his legs.

Clint cleared his throat and snatched his hands back. “Lice free. I guess you get to keep your hair for another day.”

Taking this dismissal for what it was, Bucky propelled himself forward with his fists and stood. He looked back at Clint for a spare second, and then held out his metal arm for his winged companion and made his way down the stairs.

Watching him go, Clint told himself sternly that he couldn’t interpret Bucky’s actions as anything other than what they looked like. Inventing a romance would be stupid. And Phil…

 _Phil’s dead,_ he told himself sharply. Even just thinking the words made him wince. His inner voice chided him for being stupid, and for being disloyal, and for being even _more_ stupid because Phil wouldn’t have stood for that kind of nonsense anyway. He shook his head and gathered up the refuse from lunch to take it back inside. Clint spent the rest of the day fixing the downstairs bathroom. He was both annoyed and embarrassed to find that the hot water wasn’t working, and probably hadn’t been for Bucky’s whole stay.

~*~

A summer storm drove them into the house early a few weeks later. Bucky sat at the big picture window and watched the rain sheet over the porch while Clint sanded his newest piece of barn wood furniture. The planks were so weathered and warped that they were useless for anything other than firewood and bohemian furniture that he would sell for way too much to a young girl from the city, cooing over how _shaby-chic_ it was, thank you for your $89, ma’am. Bucky glanced over just often enough to let Clint know he was bored.

“Want to help?” Clint asked after the hundredth such look. He held out a sheet of rough sandpaper. It was making a mess of the living room, but he had a sheet down and they could dust later. Clint couldn’t think of anything else to do, and it was long past the days when he could laze around with a book - he had to keep his hands moving, or he started to feel trapped. Bucky took a second to think about it just to make sure Clint understood that Bucky was doing him a favor, and then crossed the room. He dropped easily to the floor, and, really - Clint was pretty damn spry, but he had to admit that he was jealous of Bucky’s easy mobility. Watching him move sometimes made Clint feel like he was wasting away. He didn’t work out nearly as much as he should, didn’t practice as often as he should, and hadn’t done any tumbling at all since he left the SHIELD psychiatric ward. He needed to get back to work, or the next time he needed those skills they wouldn’t be there.

The _shu-shush_ of sandpaper on wood interrupted his dark spiral. Bucky ran his thumb over the table leg and then put the paper back to it and started sanding down the rough edge. Clint returned his attention to the other side, and they worked in relative silence for a while. Bucky’s hiss of pain brought him up short some minutes later. He looked over to see Bucky frowning at the blood running down his hand. Blood didn’t hold any horror for Clint, and he was not in the habit of panicking at someone else’s injury. He set the sandpaper down and stood up.

“Come on,” he said simply. It took Bucky a second to realize that Clint wanted him to follow, but he did readily enough. Clint led him into the bathroom and nudged the toilet seat and lid down. “Better get used to putting it down,” he commented, “Or Nat will castrate you next she makes it out here.” He gestured to the seat and Bucky sat, head tipped curiously.

“She doesn’t come out much,” Clint continued as if he needed to explain himself. “Especially not with… well, you know. SHIELD, and… all that business with you.” He waved a dismissive hand and pulled the first aid kit out of the cupboard. He kept it in a backpack, and it far surpassed what could be found in the average American’s home. He could be arrested for about half of it, especially now that his SHIELD badge wouldn’t buy him any averted eyes.

Clint pulled Bucky’s bleeding hand over the sink and ran warm water over it to clear away the worst of the blood. He found a long gash at the base of Bucky’s palm, puffed up at the edges like a cat scratch. “Well, I guess good thing you found whatever did this instead of my customer,” Clint decided, wiping at the cut gently. There was a substantial splinter in one corner of the cut, the skin around it already turning purple. “And that this isn’t redwood. I got a redwood splinter in my foot once, back when I was still with the circus… my whole leg swelled up like an elephant’s foot. I swear I thought it was just going to fall off.” He continued to chat while he examined the cut for any other splinters, and then slathered it in Neosporin.

Bucky watched him avidly through this process. When asked, he reached over to hold two metal fingers over the gauze pad while Clint took out a pressure bandage to wrap it. Clint expertly wrapped the injury and had him wiggle his fingers to make sure it wasn’t too tight. Bucky poked the bandage, flexed his fingers a few times, and deemed it sufficient. Clint expected him to get up and walk out, but he stayed where he was while Clint put the kit away.

Bucky’s metal arm threw off a bright glow under the vanity lights and Clint darted curious looks at it while he neatly repacked the kit. Noticing his interest, Bucky turned so his arm was more clearly visible. Clint considered apologizing and looking away, but Bucky obviously didn’t mind the scrutiny. Taking it for permission, Clint put the kit back in the cupboard and dried his hands off. He crouched down in front of Bucky and lifted both hands, cupping the elbow with one and running the fingers of the other over the remarkably smooth surface. Bucky obligingly twisted the arm so Clint could see the underside.

“It’s warm,” Clint observed, surprised. Bucky rolled his opposite shoulder in a shrug – he didn’t understand how it worked. “I would have thought the metal would be cold,” Clint added to himself. He slid one hand around Bucky’s wrist and pulled, forcing his elbow to bend. It moved like a natural human limb, even flexing the same way a human bicep would. Clint would bet everything he had that Tony Stark would give up an arm of his own to examine it more closely.

“Can you feel it when I’m touching you?” Clint asked curiously, looking up at him. Bucky blinked and nodded, eyes following the progress of Clint’s fingers. “Pretty amazing stuff,” Clint said finally, dropping his hands. Bucky shrugged again. He reached out and caught Clint’s right wrist. Clint’s initial reaction was to jerk away from the touch, a response ingrained in him, but at Bucky’s guilty jump, Clint let out a breath and offered his arm up again.

Bucky took his arm very cautiously, watching Clint for a reaction. When Clint didn’t pull away from him again, he completed a thorough examination of Clint’s arm from wrist to shoulder. He seemed the most fascinated by Clint’s hand, and reached out to capture the left in order to compare them. He touched the fingertips on Clint’s left hand, and then the palm of his right.

“I’m left eye dominate, but right handed,” Clint explained. “So I pull with my left hand, brace with my right. Most right-handed people are the reverse.”

Bucky nodded vaguely, not looking up at Clint. He held up his left hand and wiggled the metallic fingers.

“You’re left handed?” Clint guessed. Bucky nodded, but hesitated. He let Clint’s hands go and held up both hands, wiggling the fingers again. “Ambidextrous,” Clint concluded. “Lucky bastard. Took me years to teach myself to use my left hand well. Still can’t write left-handed to save my life. But then I can’t really write right-handed either. Nat says I have a doctor’s penmanship.”

Bucky gave him a sly smile that stripped years off his face. He reached up and pushed his hair out of his face with his injured hand, was startled by the injury and looked at it sharply. He relaxed when he saw the pressure bandage. Clint wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, but he reached into the drawer and pulled out one of Nat’s hair ties. Bucky held his hand out for it, but Clint rose to his feet and wedged himself between the toilet and the bathtub. He combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, gathering it up in his right hand. Bucky leaned into him, so he let the handful of hair go and did it again, brushing his fingers through the soft curls until Bucky practically purred under his hands. By the time he finally wrapped the tie around the ponytail, Bucky’s expression was as happy and relaxed as Clint had ever seen it.

“Come show me where that splinter was,” Clint said, stepping around the toilet. “If the customer finds it, I’ll probably get sued.”

Clint ignored the disappointed sigh behind him, and Bucky followed him back into the living room.

~*~

Evenings on the farm were quiet. When it was nice outside, they ate their dinner on the back porch and watched the sun set. After the possible-lice incident, Bucky made a habit of sitting between Clint’s feet after dinner, so Clint started bringing a hairbrush and ties out with them. He hadn’t spent so much time playing with someone’s hair since that time Nat had pretended to be madly in love with him while secretly plotting to torture him for information and execute him. It only added spice to the relationship that he'd known about her plans almost from the beginning, and she hadn't seem surprised when he'd finally put a gun to the back of her head and told her that she had two choices – and only one of them didn’t end up making a mess. Lucky for both of them, she’d already made the choice. Three months of hell getting her out of Russia was the result.

“Phil came in and extracted us personally,” Clint said. He didn’t realize he'd been relaying the story aloud until Phil’s name smacked him in the face. He froze with strands of Bucky’s hair woven around his fingers and waited for the customary stab of gut-tearing pain. There was only a faint throb under his ribs, and a warm glow in his chest. He let out a shaky breath and returned to the braid. “He tore my hide into strips for going off mission and blowing my cover, but he still came for us. Protocol said he should have put two bullets in Nat’s skull. Instead, he took a bullet protecting her, and stared Fury down still bleeding, just fucking daring him to take her away. The most epic stare-down in the history of stare-downs.” Clint chuckled and tied off the braid. He tapped Bucky’s shoulder to let him know that he was finished, but Bucky stayed where he was, tilting his head to rest on Clint’s knee.

Clint swallowed hard. “It was a good move,” he continued, trying to ignore the intimacy of the act. It was stupid, because he’d been playing with Bucky’s hair for weeks by then, and it wasn’t like _that_ wasn’t intimate. Something about the trust Bucky put him made him feel both warm and oddly humble. He reached down and picked up the end of the braid to twist it around his fingers.

“She’s one of SHIELD’s best now… or, I guess, was, since SHIELD isn’t actually a thing anymore.”

Bucky’s body twitched in a full wince. He looked up at Clint a little shyly, his expression apologetic. Clint wouldn’t have responded the same way six months before, but he started to laugh. “It’s not your fault, man. Though you might want to have some chocolates and lilies on hand before you see Nat again. She’s never really forgiven you for that bullet through the hip.”

As gentle and amazing as a sunset, Bucky blushed. Clint unthinkingly dropped the braid to brush his fingers over Bucky’s cheek. The moment hovered there, the two of them staring at each other with neither really knowing what to do with the other. Then Bucky closed his eyes and pushed into Clint’s hand. Clint curled his hand around Bucky’s cheek. They stayed that way until Bucky’s crow landed on the railing with a loud demand for attention.

“Asshole,” Clint muttered at the bird. It cawed at him, hopped down onto the deck, and straight into Bucky’s lap. Perched on his knee, the bird cawed at Clint again. “I’ll make breakfast out of you one day,” Clint warned it. The crow was not impressed. Bucky laughed, the sound startling all three of them. The crow hopped briefly away and then back to Bucky’s knee with a scolding. Bucky looked up at Clint like he was waiting for a reprimand, and smiled tentatively when Clint just picked up his braid again and started twirling it around his finger.

~*~

“I’m headed into town,” Clint called into the barn where Bucky was knocking down the rotted hayloft. He’d proven himself to be a capable carpenter, and demolition seemed to relax him. Clint had been initially afraid Bucky was going to bring the entire barn down on his head, but Bucky had only responded to that idea with narrowed eyes and a lifted eyebrow – he could take care of himself, and he’d survived worse than a falling barn. He’d survived a falling helicarrier for starts.

Bucky came out of the barn, brushing debris off his chest. He looked at Clint in with one brow hiked, head tilted slightly to the right.

“Do you need anything?” Clint clarified. Bucky tilted his head the other way. “Want to come along?” Bucky look distinctly uncomfortable and his eyes slid back to the decrepit barn, which was apparently a safer prospect than leaving the farm. Clint shrugged. “No problem. You can stay here.” He handed Bucky the simple cell phone he'd brought from the house. Bucky flipped it open and looked between the dark display and Clint curiously. “My number is already programmed into the contacts in case there’s an emergency. It’s a burner, but destroy it within twenty-four hours of the first time you use it, alright?”

Bucky nodded and slid the phone into his pocket. Clint debated asking him if he knew how to use it, but he handled it well enough, and didn’t seem too concerned or curious about any of the terminology. Clint hesitated, ready to leave, but his feet weren’t moving. He reached out hesitantly and closed his hand on Bucky’s metal wrist. “See you when I get home,” Clint said.

Eyes transferring from Clint’s face, down to his hand, and then back up again, Bucky nodded very slowly and very deliberately. Clint didn’t realize until then that he was afraid he would come home and find the house empty. He laughed at himself for being stupid and clingy, and let go of Bucky’s wrist. Bucky surprised him by reaching out and taking Clint’s right hand in his. Watching Clint carefully, he lifted the hand to his lips and set a gentle kiss on Clint’s calloused fingertips. Clint’s mouth dropped open, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Bucky let his fingers go and nudged Clint in a clear order to get moving. Clint nodded, frowning, and walked away.

~*~

Clint brought home over a dozen movies that Bucky had probably missed and desperately needed to see. Among the list was _Toy Story_ , _Jaws, Spaceballs, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Austin Powers_ and _The Labyrinth_. Bucky went through each of them with great care, examining the covers and reading the backs. He peeled the plastic wrap off and opened each box, pulling out the advertising flyers and reading each before sorting the movies into piles. They ate dinner at the table and cleaned up the kitchen. Clint stood in front of the piles of movies while Bucky finished wiping down the counters. They were arranged in some order that Clint couldn’t quite figure out, _Austin Powers_ sitting on top of _E.T._ , and _The Labyrinth_ grouped with _Monty Python_ and _The Notebook_. He eyed the last and silently made a note to hide it before Nat’s next visit, or he would never hear the end of it.

Moving with his unnerving quiet, Bucky came to stand next to him. Together, they examined the movies in silence for several moments.

“Which one do you want to watch first?” Clint asked, turning to look at him.

Bucky hesitated, and then reached out and rescued _Toy Story_ from the top of a pile containing the newest _Star Trek,_ the original _Jurassic Park,_ and _Waterworld_. Clint gave up trying to figure out the sorting system and took the movie. “Excellent choice.” He grinned. “You’re going to love the squeaky toys.”

Bucky followed him into the living room, looking suspicious, but he sat down between Clint’s legs all the same to watch. Clint leaned back on the couch and idly stroked Bucky's hair through the first half of the movie, something that Bucky never grew tired of, and Clint found surprisingly relaxing. Bucky got up halfway through the movie to sit on the couch beside him, choosing to sit with only a few inches separating their bodies rather than at the other end. After a strangely electric moment, Clint hesitantly lifted his arm. Bucky stared at him in the partial darkness for a good dozen heartbeats, and then laid his head in Clint’s lap. They sat tense while the newness of the contact sank in, but Bucky relaxed as soon as Clint pulled over a throw pillow for him. Bucky was asleep by the time the credits rolled, and Clint couldn’t bring himself to wake him up to go to bed. He eventually fell asleep himself, and didn’t even mind that his leg would be numb and his neck would be sore in the morning.

~*~

Fall harvest came and went, the days picking up a brisk breeze and the nights getting colder. Clint spent most of his free time in the barn, and Bucky took up a position in the newly bared field to entertain his feathered friends. Clint kindly did not take to picking them off from the barn roof, no matter how tempting a target they made in the open. There were fewer of the birds with winter creeping up on them, but not all of the crows had abandoned the farm for warmer climates. Pity.

The sky was just threatening snow when Clint called Bucky down off the roof of the main house. He’d been crawling over the roof for two days to make sure it was sound for winter. Clint had joined him the first day, but he'd realized quickly that Bucky would prefer the alone time, so he returned to the barn. Bucky came down after a minute, still wearing short sleeves despite the cold, a hammer hooked in his belt, hair attractively mused, skin damp with sweat. He looked like the start of a bad porno. Clint had to bite his tongue to keep from making the observation aloud only because he wasn’t sure if Bucky would get the reference, and he didn’t know if he wanted to introduce Bucky to the wonders and horrors of a Google porn search just then.

“Come with me,” Clint said, forcefully abandoning the not altogether unpleasant idea of an afternoon of pornography. Bucky followed with only a single backwards glance at the unfinished rooftop. Clint led him through the brand new barn door, looking a little ridiculous with its bright red paint job against the faded paint of the surrounding timbers. The day was overcast and not the best light, but it was enough. The floor was cleared out, and the new loft was a pale gold in contrast to the darker wood. Clint gestured Bucky to the loft, and followed slowly. The man was already standing at one of the roosts, his metal hand resting on a perch when Clint made it over the top of the ladder. The converted hayloft was filled with comfortable bird boxes, rows of thick wooden beams making easy perches for the three crows that had made it in ahead of them. The birds cawed at Clint, ruffling their feathers.

“Don’t sass me,” Clint told them sternly. “I built it for you, you ungrateful shits.”

Bucky turned on him so sharply that Clint almost apologized, and how ridiculous was that? Apologizing for insulting a damn bird – and not even a useful bird like a hawk, but a _crow_. Clint crossed his arms over his chest and set his expression so Bucky knew he wasn’t about to apologize to a crow, but Bucky’s expression was not one of disapproval. He moved so quickly that Clint was in a fighting crouch before he knew it. Bucky enclosed him in a tight hug and pressed his face against Clint’s cheek. It took Clint several seconds to relax enough to enjoy it, his pulse racing, long ingrained instincts pointing out openings, estimating the distance to the edge of the loft, the proximity of potential weapons. Bucky didn’t move, holding still until Clint’s conscious mind told his instincts to take a hike. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist, and was still more surprised than he should have been when Bucky’s mouth set almost chastely to his.

He was absolutely thunderstruck when Bucky pulled away enough to whisper, “Thank you.”

Clint swallowed hard, warmth spreading out from his chest. A faint voice whined _But, Phil_ … and another (that sounded a lot like Phil), snapped _Is dead_. Asshole was still giving him orders, even a year a half in the grave. Clint held tighter to Bucky’s waist when he shifted his weight to step back. He leaned up the inch that separated them and sealed his mouth less chastely over Bucky’s. He worried briefly that it was more than Bucky was ready to handle, but after a second of stillness Bucky moaned into his mouth and melted against his body.

“You’re welcome,” Clint managed when they separated.

Bucky set their foreheads together, and they breathed one another’s air. He didn’t say anything else, but Clint found that he didn’t need anything else.

Behind them, a crow laughed in short, throaty caws.

"Breakfast," Clint reminded it darkly over Bucky's shoulder. Bucky chuckled and kissed Clint's cheek before pulling away.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finding Clint and Bucky make a very sweet pair, so I think I probably will continue it. As part of the original conversation with Etharei, the Avengers need to waltz in and find Bucky sitting at the table with a sandwich.
> 
> I am on tumblr here: http://lightshadowverisimilitude.tumblr.com/


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